Opinion: The conflict in Gaza has taken my family. It’s my responsibility to share their tales.
Whenever I hear from family or the media about Israeli military actions, I brace myself for the worst and offer a few extra prayers.
Just four days after October 7, 2023 — the day the Israeli military began its violent response in Gaza — I had a meeting with my new editor.
Although my family resides in Gaza, where my parents are originally from, I had planned to focus on my reporting about Detroit Mayor Mike Duggan’s political relationship with the White House in that meeting. However, when my editor entered the room, he inquired about my well-being.
Overwhelmed with emotion, I buried my face in my hands and began to weep.
Struggling to speak, I had just heard from a cousin that the Israeli military was targeting his neighborhood, and bombs were falling dangerously close to his home. My parents emigrated to the United States in the late 80s, leaving behind large families. We had frequented Gaza before the onset of this war. I feared that this might be the last conversation I had with my cousin and that I might lose a loved one.
Feeling powerless, I realized my family had nowhere to escape. Israel and Egypt were denying most Palestinians in Gaza the right to flee and blocking humanitarian aid. Israel has dominion over the borders out of the Palestinian territories. The Rafah crossing into Egypt has faced a blockade since at least 2007, opening only sporadically, and had just closed at the war’s start.
I felt the weight of responsibility for my family. Yet, here I was in Detroit, feeling defeated as I watched my loved ones struggle in Gaza.
I had to confront the horrors unfolding in Gaza
I had wished for the horrors to end. But as heartbreaking images from Gaza constantly appeared on my social media feeds and news outlets, I couldn’t turn away, terrified I might recognize someone familiar. I needed to confirm my family’s safety.
The emotional toll was palpable. I struggled to maintain a healthy diet, often feeling nauseous and unwell. Each news update tightened a knot in my neck, and my heart raced while my stomach churned.
My meals became reduced to small snacks — cheese, crackers, a bit of fruit, and popcorn frequently stood in as dinner.
I lost weight, prompting my doctor to insist I gain some back. In a burst of impulse, I invested in a rigorous personal trainer and nutrition coach — I’ve since gained 10 pounds and can now lift more than my body weight.
And then, it happened.
My losses in the Israel-Palestine conflict
In December 2023, two months after the conflict began, I received links to social media videos showing a man on a stretcher with his finger raised to the sky — a gesture of faith in God among Muslims — and a woman limping with blood streaming down her face, desperately clutching her son as she made her way to a hospital.
Children surrounding them coughed from the clouds of dust while fleeing their bombed apartment, with blood smeared on their faces, narrating to the videographer how their home was destroyed. One little child was on the hospital floor, being treated while crying out in pain.
I let out a cry — a sound I had never made before — and just stood still.
That man was my uncle — my mother’s brother — on the stretcher, and next to him was my aunt, along with my cousins, people I love dearly — all hurt merely for being there.
This wasn’t the only instance of confronting loss. My aunt, uncle, and cousins made it through, but their home was gone.
They found temporary shelter with another uncle in central Gaza, but that was short-lived — in early March, that house was bombed, too. My younger cousin got injured when the building fell, with casts now covering his right side.
I couldn’t put my phone down until I got news about his recovery; resources were dwindling in the hospitals, meaning it was difficult for him to get treatment in Gaza. He had to wait nearly two months to be permitted to leave for medical care outside of Gaza, ultimately losing a limb and suffering serious damage to his shoulder.
As I learn from family or news updates about the areas under attack from the Israeli military, I mentally brace myself for devastating news and pray just a little more.
In April, six months into the war, I received the tragic news that my aunt — my father’s sister — and uncle had died. They were at home when an airstrike decimated several houses nearby.
While I had anticipated this possibility for months, when it finally occurred, I was too stunned to accept it, too shocked to weep. All I desired was to check in on my father and spend valuable time with family as we mourned his sister’s passing.
But that’s not where the story ends.
In the early phases of the war, my mother’s sister and her family were forced from their home in southern Gaza, moving repeatedly to find safety within the region. The turmoil made it difficult to keep track of dates. In July alone, they relocated twice. Then in early August, her son, my cousin, returned to the south and was with a friend when an explosion occurred.
His friend was injured but managed to crawl to safety, informing my family of the tragic news that my cousin had lost his life. My aunt fell apart emotionally, and the search for her son’s body added to her distress.
While I grappled with yet another bereavement, my editor encouraged me to prioritize my own well-being. However, my focus at that moment was on completing a story I was writing about Detroit’s political landscape—wanting to finish it so I could be present with my family and momentarily escape the turmoil.
Stories of Palestinians are significant
It’s challenging to navigate the professional ethics that discourage journalists like me from sharing personal perspectives on the news we cover, especially while processing the grief stemming from the destruction of my second home.
As a journalist, my responsibility is to uncover and relay the truth, regardless of the circumstances.
I joined the field to highlight stories like those of the Palestinians—voices that often go unheard, revealing the ongoing violence and oppression they endure under the Israeli government’s prolonged occupation of Palestine.
As a journalist and as a human being, I owe it to my family and to all who are undervalued.
The images of my family and countless others in Gaza—malnourished, displaced, and even deceased—haunt me constantly.
My family resembles many other families in Gaza. They love to prepare dishes like maqluba and mandi. My late aunt, a phenomenal cook—may her soul rest in peace—made the most deliciously crispy fried sardines I’ve ever tasted. My cousins enjoy playing soccer passionately and humorously compete in card games. My aunts and uncles take delight in bringing toys and sweets for their grandchildren, cherishing the joy and laughter on their faces. They all enjoy spending time at Gaza’s beautiful beaches, scattered with seashells, sipping tea, and playfully splashing each other in the Mediterranean Sea. They deeply care for one another.
Their lives are important. Their narratives are important.
As I witness the strength of those who have survived amid the ruthless violence in Gaza, it serves as a vital reminder of the necessity to amplify their stories—and the world must pay attention.
